Soldier
by Ammanalien
Summary: A little whumpy story involving a casualty of war.


Wow, I miss my team. Fan fic must fill the void, hence this self-indulgent little thing. Hope it brings you some whumpy joy!

Soldier

Yes, this is the place.

The scrap of paper crumples into his palm.

They stand before a field hospital, hastily constructed of canvas and wooden poles. Stretchers are propped outside against the tent walls, blood-stained and torn. Oddments of military uniforms and equipment litter the ground... tin cups, a pile of metal helmets, dirty sheets and dirtier bandages. The first thing to hit them is the smell of blood, and beneath it - not far beneath it - the sickly stench of death and human misery.

There's a doorway of sorts and they duck beneath an edge of tarp and wait just inside expecting to be challenged; they are not. Two medics move from patient to patient quickly, and with stony, hollow expressions. Several people are moaning; these are recent arrivals presumably, still possessing the strength to make noise.

Almost reluctantly they leave the bright and back-lit doorway and move into the gloomy and airless tent.

There are bodies everywhere; some are on the floor, wrapped in sheets; some are on tables. Some are still moving.

Sheppard's eyes, accustomed now to the dimness, flick here and there, searching... looking for anything... anything that looks...

..._and abruptly he sees what he is looking for._

Off towards the back, where daylight filters through canvas, there's a man; he's in the corner, laying on his right side, with no sheet to cover him, on a high metal trolley. There's something about the way he looks, something familiar... the shape of him, in outline against the back wall of the tent.

Sheppard imagines the scene; several days ago they would have brought him in, injured but lucid, spitting empty threats and indignant complaints. The medics give a cursory look at his injuries, they do not even attempt to clean or bandage them; maybe they mean to do so later. Someone sees an IV bottle and attaches it, feeling they have at least done something. They leave, to attend to more of the same and worse.

Now, as Sheppard draws nearer, he sees the man is quiet and still, no more complaining, no cocky twist of the mouth and pithy comeback. The short-cropped hair is damp and dirty, smeared with an oily mixture of mud and gore. His face, flushed with colour, is remarkably composed and peaceful. Breaths are coming fast and shallow - it's clear he is seriously ill.

The dark wool jacket he wears is impressive, but dusty and stained, and open to halfway with brassy buttons dangling. Perhaps the shirt beneath was once white. The jacket's elaborate gold insignia is unrecognisable to Sheppard, but here is a _soldier, _he thinks, regardless of whether the war was his own. The uniform is completed by dark, tailored pants and high black boots; _Jack boots_, thinks Sheppard, without really knowing why.

The well-made but foreign battledress is torn away at the back and left shoulder, its tattered remains hanging down across the lapel. It's difficult to see, but blood has dried all along the ragged edge of the dark jacket; the lining fabric, however, is very obviously deeply stained with old blood and saturated with new: a thin and dirty cloth is draped over top. Sheppard does not want to look beneath it. Around the soldier's neck is a twisted length of darkly-stained fabric, perhaps torn from a linen shirt. It is knotted beneath the man's left ear.

For a moment the three companions can only stare, transfixed at first by horror and disbelief; Teyla is the first to lay a hand on him. Then the two men follow her lead. Ronon at the foot of the gurney rests a hand on one dusty pant leg; Sheppard rips off a glove and with one hand feels the fever across the man's brow.

Practicalities bring them back:

"We need to take that off" Sheppard says, motioning to the line and empty bottle that enters the man's left arm; he pulls off his remaining glove. Then he adds, "Do we?" because, after all, what does _he_ know. There is no answer from any of them, but the bottle has long since been emptied and it's clear from their eyes that they want nothing to do with this place, including the paraphenalia of primitive medical care. Sheppard unclips his weapon, and hands it to Teyla. She takes it wordlessly and clips it alongside her own.

The soldier's forearm is mostly pinned beneath his right side where it is pressed to the cold, metallic surface of the trolley; the sleeve has been pushed up. Sheppard slowly and with great care, draws the arm out, now seeing where the needle enters, in the crook of the elbow. The whole area is inflamed, there is no tape securing the port and as he gently moves the arm, slippery with perspiration, the needle simply pulls free. Oddly, it is this small action that stirs the sick man to groan and cough weakly. Sheppard crouches slowly, he still has hold of the arm. He brings his face close to the other man's and says quietly, "Easy...."

As two blue eyes open, the ghost of a smile appears and then is gone. "John..." the man says.

Sheppard finds he cannot speak. He is surprised by how much this scene has shocked him. This is not the first time he has stood in a place such as this, nor the first time he has seen an injured friend. But there is a wrongness here... a great big 'No' that fills him with indignation and rage.

He licks his lips and tightens his grasp on that sweaty arm. "What's happened to you?" he whispers.

Suddenly, "You can't take him" speaks a voice.

Sheppard who is still crouched, doesn't even look up. He watches as the sick man's eyes close slowly.

He says softly, "Try and stop us if you like" _and then I'll kill you,_ he adds, but only to himself.

His tone must have sounded as murderous as it felt, because he hears someone scuttling away.

Still transfixed by the figure before him, his eyes wander; there seems to be blood everywhere, in splashes, spots and smears. Sweat is beading on a stubbled upper lip. Now and again a shiver moves through the body. It's been several weeks of searching, looking for a scientist caught up in civil war. How he came to be here wearing a uniform not his own, Sheppard could only speculate. What had brought him here, what terrible journey of necessity and violence had left him injured and forgotten in this terrible place?

These thoughts are interrupted by Ronon. "We need to move" he says.

Sheppard rises, his knees crack audibly.

Upon closer inspection of the gurney, Sheppard sees the top is a simple metal sheet with hand holes. He throws a look at Ronon and together they lift it from its base, Sheppard taking the head end, and Ronon the feet. As they lift and swing away from the corner, Teyla slips in behind laying on steadying hands to prevent the injured man from toppling off. Her eyes are drawn to the cloth-draped shoulder. With some reluctance she lifts the thin cloth to take a look.

"I think we should go now" she breathes, her face looking pale in the half-light.

Somewhere, mortars explode. The vibration rumbles throught the tent; poles creak and canvas billows and flaps. Dust falls gently over their heads.

Sheppard and Teyla look at each other. Ronon speaks.

"Like I said... we need to move."

As they stumble across the uneven ground to the cloaked jumper, their eyes pinch almost closed by the glare of daylight; they hear and feel more explosions off to the east.

Gas clouds hang above them, smoky-yellow and stinking. They clatter into the jumper, coughing.

A moment after that, they hear Elizabeth's voice on the radio:

"Tell me you have him."

John swallows and answers her. "We have him."

"How is he?" is the immediate anxious response.

Sheppard watches as Teyla dampens a towel and carefully begins to clean McKay's face and neck; Ronon is unwinding tubing from the med-kit.

The pause is long and means so much. Sheppard replies, "He's in bad shape."

Elizabeth doesn't answer, and, turning away from his companions, John Sheppard slides into the pilot's seat and takes them home.

oOo

I had a little fixation on uniforms... and I've been watching Band of Brothers, that's kind of where this came from. The image in my head was _injured McKay in a ruined but snappy uniform._


End file.
